Mommie Dearest
Dear Lover,
I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I first encountered Billie Holiday's song "God Bless The Child," but the emotions it stirred in me, I will never forget. Tears flowed nonstop as I felt as if Miss Billie had penned those lyrics just for me—for those children who questioned the divine rationale behind their given parents. I vividly remember wrestling with a deep sense of injustice, questioning what I had done to deserve such flawed parents. When I started sharing my story, aiming to shed light on the experiences of those without parents, the judgment I faced for the abuse I endured and the strained relationship with my mother was disheartening. Some argue that getting disciplined for misbehavior is common, despite the evident contradiction my bruises portrayed.
I want to acknowledge that this love letter might be triggering, but it is vital for me to share, as it encapsulates the most profound lessons life has granted me. Importantly, my intention is not to evoke distress but to emphasize the significance of these lessons in fostering healing and understanding.
I've never felt a genuine connection with my mother throughout my entire life. The disconnection runs so deep that I can count on one hand the instances I referred to her as my mother. Strangely, I often used her first name, and oddly, she seemed accepting of it. Perhaps, on some level, she sensed the same disconnection, for what parent could be content with their child addressing them by their first name? Despite the lack of a profound connection, my mother has served as a significant teacher in various ways. There are several lessons she imparted, and I'll share those that have lingered with me to this day.
One pivotal lesson revolves around the appropriate use of pronouns, a concept introduced at a young age. At the time, my comprehension of sexuality was limited, as is often the case for most thirteen-year-olds. Despite this, I was aware that my mom's boyfriend's aunt had a preference for women. Instead of directly addressing my curiosity, I expressed it by using the term dyke. Rather than seizing the opportunity to educate me, my mother chose to inform her boyfriend, who opted for a form of discipline that went beyond words – I found myself cornered and subjected to punches. In that moment, the realization struck me that my mother couldn't truly love me, as genuine love wouldn't permit such harm to be inflicted upon a child.
In my younger years, I pleaded with her to let me join a modeling agency called John Casablanca. The agency aimed to harness students' natural talents, which for me was my appearance and height. Though I can't recall my agent's name, he took a liking to me. However, when it became evident that modeling wasn't in my future, I was withdrawn from the school.
Years later, on evenings when my mother couldn't prepare dinner for my sisters and me due to her overnight shifts, our go-to meal became pizza. On one such occasion, as we ordered pizza, the delivery guy turned out to be none other than my former agent from the modeling agency. It appeared that modeling wasn't in his future either. We were both excited to see each other, and in hindsight, I fail to see any harm in him asking about my life and what I have been up to. Yet, my mother was visibly upset with how candidly I was conversing with him.
Instead of intervening to explain the potential risks of such openness – because looking back, I now understand the real dangers, people can be dangerous and niggas be kidnapping– she stayed in the corner, glaring at me, and allowed the conversation to unfold. It was evident she was waiting for me to finish, anticipating what was to come. At that moment, I sensed trouble and tried to stall for as long as possible. The moment I shut the door, she unleashed a forceful punch to my lip, causing it to swell and burst.
I understand this may be overwhelming, but this has been my reality until I made the decision to leave her house during high school. I don’t remember the exact details of how this unfolded, but what remains vivid is the moment when the authorities were called. As we were all outside – me, my mother, and the police – trying to figure out the best solution, in an unusual alignment, both my mother and I acknowledged that emancipating myself was the best course of action. However, she was reluctant to navigate the intricate process, deeming it too overwhelming. Faced with this reality, I made the decision to pack up my belongings and leave, catalyzing my journey into independence at an unusually early age. I opted to live with my sister's father, and while he wasn't much better, he seemed like the only available option until I could start on my journey to college.
I was taught how to “show face” since I was a child, so it was no different for me when I arrived at college. Addiction runs through my blood, and in college, while I wasn't an alcoholic, I did enjoy partying. However, a noticeable pattern emerged - whenever I consumed alcohol, my emotions swung between intense anger and profound sadness. Regardless of the emotion, I often found myself reiterating my upbringing as a victim. It wasn't until later that I connected the dots, realizing the source of the boiling anger within me was rooted in my relationship with my mother. The breaking point occurred during a college party, where a friend's actions triggered such a severe response that I blacked thee entire fuck out. Looking back, I recognized the warning signs indicating a need for help, as that day held the potential to alter the trajectory of my life permanently. One might expect such an incident to propel me toward seeking the necessary assistance and support for my journey of healing and self-discovery, but, truthfully, I didn't know what the next step would be. Moreover, during this time, nobody was talking about therapy or mental health, making it even more challenging to navigate. Bringing up the topic would often result in people thinking you were crazy, adding another layer of difficulty to an already complex situation.
Nevertheless, my perspective of my mother underwent a transformation as I entered into my own womanhood. It's funny how personal experiences can reshape our perspective on others' actions. The lens through which I once viewed her as my mother shifted, and recognizing her as a person, a woman, made it simpler for me to acknowledge the shared human experiences between us.
Upon meeting my father via conversations, he divulged many details about my mother that were previously unknown to me. I was unaware of the challenges she faced throughout her life. Despite the tumultuous nature of their relationship, he consistently emphasized that I was wanted by both of them, even though neither played a significant role in my life. Describing me as a "love child," he acknowledged that love couldn't always shield someone from the twists and turns that life has in store. As he shared his perspectives, everything began to fall into place, providing clarity to my mother's story and the path that led to her becoming the person she is.
While I don't condone her actions, I've come to understand that when she looked at me, I became a constant reminder of the life she had hoped for with my father, a life that never came to be. Her expectations weren't necessarily about perfection, but rather, about something distinct from the harsh reality we found ourselves in. The proof lies in her genuine love for my father, the only man she ever married, evident in those cherished pictures capturing their happiness. Witnessing their joy through pictures, I couldn't recall ever seeing her so happy. Never. However, when my father began to wrestle with his demons, reality struck and that's when the beginning of her fairy tale started to end.
At this point, I had heard numerous stories from various family members pointing to a range of factors that contributed to their separation – a robbery gone wrong, infidelity, substance use, and instances of domestic violence. According to my father, she chose to separate me from him during a tumultuous period in his life, marking the last time I saw him at the age of four. If these elements were indeed part of their story, could I fault her for wanting to leave? However, it seems she might not have fully grasped the repercussions on all parties involved, and unfortunately, I ended up with the short end of the stick.
Reflecting on the past, it now makes sense why a genuine connection never formed between us. I not only resembled my father but also embodied her resentment towards him. Unfortunately, she seized every opportunity to remind me of this reality, and I realized those punches were not for me but instead, for him.
I have not spoken to my mother in almost two decades, and the last time I laid eyes on her was at Na-Na's funeral. Although I had always admired her beauty, witnessing her at Na-Na's funeral made it clear that life had taken its toll. It appeared as though life had caught up with her, and her relationship with alcohol might have played a role too.
Rumors circulated that she started drinking as a teenager, prompting me to ponder the demons she might have been grappling with. I can't help but wonder if given the chance to go back, what choices would she alter? Does she regret the path she chose? Did she truly desire motherhood? If given the opportunity for a second chance, what dreams and aspirations would she pursue in her life? Similar to my father, I've heard she was exceptionally intelligent, possessing both brains and beauty.
These lingering questions weave a complex tapestry of reflections, prompting me to ponder the divergent paths life might have taken for both my mother and our relationship. One might wonder if there were ever moments of joy and truthfully, I can't recall. The only glimmer of tenderness emerged when she sang a morning refrain, urging us to kickstart our day: 'Get out that bed, get out that bed, sleepyhead, sleepyhead.' Despite being her eldest daughter among all the girls, expressions of I love you, warm embraces, and other displays of affection were notably absent in our interactions.
Despite the absence of maternal love, I must recognize her influence in molding my resilience. The journey of navigating life as a woman, particularly one of color, introduces its unique challenges. The tumultuous nature of my upbringing brought a stark awareness that enduring my challenging childhood equipped me to face any obstacle. It raises the contemplation of whether her actions were a deliberate effort to instill toughness in me.
Furthermore, the void of maternal love underscored the significance of relying on community support. Though the meaning of this dependence wasn't clear during my childhood, I've come to deeply appreciate it in my adulthood. Many women, acting in a motherly capacity, have entered my life, providing their presence and reassurance. For this, I am eternally grateful, as their support has been a comforting beacon, assuring me that everything would be okay. Acknowledging myself for taking on the role of mothering me adds another layer to this journey. Mothering oneself is a profound act of self-compassion, and I've learned to embrace it as a source of empowerment.
As I pen down these reflections, I am not seeking pity or understanding. Instead, I share my story with the hope that it resonates with others who may have faced similar struggles with mothers in their lives. My story is a narrative woven with threads of pain, resilience, and the unyielding spirit to rise above circumstances. It is a testament to the human capacity to endure and, ultimately, thrive.
As I look toward the future, I carry the lessons of my past, acknowledging that the scars are not marks of weakness but symbols of the strength that resides within, serving as a constant reminder that everything I need is within me or within reach.
If you find yourself in a strained relationship with your mother, it's crucial to recognize the intricate and diverse nature of familial dynamics. Understand that self-preservation may necessitate creating distance, and hold steadfast in establishing and maintaining boundaries. Acknowledge that the journey toward reconciliation and self-discovery is unique, unfolding at its own pace. In the midst of this process, prioritize understanding and consider seeking support to navigate forgiveness, not necessarily for your mother but for yourself. Because forgiveness is about accepting the future for what it is, not what it could have been.
If you haven't experienced such a relationship but know someone who has, refrain from passing judgment. Create a safe space where individuals can openly share their emotions without fear of criticism. Approach these situations with empathy, fostering a compassionate and understanding environment. Acknowledge the significance of chosen families, as they play a vital role in contributing to the healing process.
Reflecting on the melodies of Billie Holiday's "God Bless The Child," I can't help but wonder if perhaps she penned those soul-stirring lyrics not only as a soundtrack to my life but as a universal ode to resilience. As I listen to this song now, my thoughts drift to my mother. While we may never have the conventional relationship that I once envied in my friends, I am forever thankful for the woman who gave me birth. Because in everything she is not, she played a role in making me everything I am.
Love,
Eboné
